


Sleeping Under the Dead Tree

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Demonic Possession, F/M, Sexual Content, Tranquil Hawke, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6769381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has failed her again. The Templars have broken through. They must make an example of those who dare stand against them. They must make an example of her. They will not kill her. Instead, they break her. They send her back to him, quiet and with a brand on her forehead. The Hawke will fly no more. Fenris brushes the hair from her forehead and his fingers tremble on her cheeks. He puts his head on her shoulder and sobs. She asks him if he is well. What can he tell her? How can he explain all that they had and all that they have lost? She tells him that she knows who he is and that she is supposed to love him. Supposed to. Her words cut deep and he holds her to him, trembling in full, a hand wound in her hair, begging her to please, please, come back to him. She is, at this, blessedly quiet.</p><p>A what-if Hawke and the rest lost to the Templars at the Gallows. They capture her and make her Tranquil. Fenris deals with the aftermath. Still Hawke, still having dealt with Corypheus, they go to help the Inquisition. </p><p>(Belong is not required reading, I just reference some of the things Hawke and Fenris say to each other.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What if the Storm Ends

He has failed her again. The Templars have broken through. They must make an example of those who dare stand against them. They must make an example of her. They will not kill her. Instead, they break her. They send her back to him, quiet and with a brand on her forehead. The Hawke will fly no more. Fenris brushes the hair from her forehead and his fingers tremble on her cheeks. He puts his head on her shoulder and sobs. She asks him if he is well. What can he tell her? How can he explain all that they had and all that they have lost? She tells him that she knows who he is and that she is supposed to love him. _Supposed to_. Her words cut deep and he holds her to him, trembling in full, a hand wound in her hair, begging her to please, please, come back to him. She is, at this, blessedly quiet.

Fenris remembers her smiles, her kind touches, and the way she could look at him that would leave him breathless. He remembers her hand in his, telling him that he doesn’t need to leave. He remembers her like a wave crashing against the shore beneath him, eyes wide and mouth open, calling his name as they reached to find that place of peace together. He remembers the long nights of just holding her, her fingertips ghosting across his chest. He remembers her telling them all that he is not a slave and that he is not alone, that he has _her_. Now she is lost.

She is a shadow of all that once was, sitting quietly in the chair before him, her hands folded neatly on her lap. She watches him with a neutral expression, never changing, as he paces back and forth in front of her. He had promised her that he would fight the Maker himself that this would not happen to her. When they ripped her from his arms, she begged him to kill her when she returned. They had kept him in that cell for days, leaving him with her sobs and her screams. They had dragged him to her estate to wait. They brought him a statue that calls itself Hawke.

He stands in front of her, his hands on her face, staring into the eyes that once sparkled with life. They are dull now, faded, and void of all the things that made her Hawke. He rubs his thumb against the brand once, twice, many more times, as though he could simply wipe it away. She says she is causing him distress, and apologizes. She is unsure how to fix it. She asks if he would like her to kiss him. That is, after all, what lovers do? The ‘no’ comes out harsher than he means it to, unable to hold back the horror. She does not react to the emotion in his voice, only ever watching.

The others cannot stand to be around her any longer. Merrill holds her face in her hands and cries, unable to save her with her magic. Isabela does not cry, but her jaw clenches and she cannot look Hawke in the eye. Sebastian prays over her silent form, and tells Fenris that he is sorry. Aveline grips the hilt of her sword and asks Fenris what he’s going to do. They all know what Hawke asked. She did not want to be _this_. He does not have the strength to kill her. Neither does Aveline. Anders might have, if the Templars had not executed him. Or, he would have marched his war further, killing every Templar that stood in his way. Perhaps that is what Fenris should do.

Instead, he sits with Varric and they drink in silence, away from Hawke. Her tranquility and Anders’s death did not solve the problems that the Templars wished. The mages were in open rebellion against the Circles, and it was spreading across Thedas quickly. Agents from the Chantry were on the way to Kirkwall. No doubt to question them, and to see the tempered Champion. Fenris does not want her questioned, want her gawked at. They’ll leave, just like the rest, somewhere the Chantry will not find them. Only Varric stays in Kirkwall.

Fenris books passage on a ship, to take them to Ferelden. She is wordlessly seasick, turning her head from time to time to empty her stomach in a bucket, then wipe her mouth and seem as though nothing had just happened. He sits beside her, his head in his hands, hurting to be with her, but unable to leave her. She remarks that she knows where she is when they leave the ship, having been in Gwaren before. She had left Ferelden this way. She returns to it the same, but different. He takes her not to Lothering, but to Redcliffe, hiding among the rebel mages.

It works, for some time. No one pays attention to a Tranquil, especially when there are so many others around. They share a shack together, and sleep in two separate beds. She rarely sleeps and only eats when she is prompted. He brushes her hair and cuts it when it gets long, and helps her bathe. She is silent, most days, and he is as well. It is easier that way, too many times have her words unknowingly hurt him. Offhand remarks, meant to help but only wound. He wakes one morning to find his hand in hers, and she staring at the red ribbon tied around his wrist.

He breathes slow, not wishing to break the spell before she does, and she only says that she was the one who gave it to him. He answers yes. A token of love, she says. Why does he still wear it if she can no longer feel that love? He grips her head, hard, his hand around her jaw and wonders if it would be better to simply dash her head against the floor. Instead he tells her it is because he still feels that love. _I am yours_. She asks if he would like to take her to bed and he curses and pushes her away. She does not know what she has done wrong, but apologizes anyway.

She moves to sit in the chair by the door, and he folds himself back into the bed, face in his pillow. Each day is a little harder than the last, but he is unwilling to let her go. It would be easier to simply leave, go back to Kirkwall or join Isabela’s crew and leave her here with the rest. It would be better, he thinks, each time he stands on the threshold. She only looks at him blankly, and does not speak. She would watch him go, not knowing that he wasn’t coming back. She would wait for him, as she did before – _I understood, I always understood_ – and she would die in that spot. Nothing could be worse than living without her, he once thought. Except this.

He remembers their hurried lovemaking in the Gallows, when they were sure they would find themselves impaled on Templar swords, and all their whispered words to each other. He supposed it would have been better if they had died. Then he would at least be with her in the Void. Not alone, not like this. _I’m here, Fenris_. He can almost hear her words in his head. He stands before her, turning away from the door, and looks down, the brand framed by her hair. He brushes away errant strands and tucks them behind her ear.

“I am yours,” he says to her and she only returns his words with silence. “What would you have me do Hawke?” He says and kneels down, resting his head on her lap. The fire flickers warm light over them, but her hands are cold when she touches him, running her fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes and it is all too easy to pretend they are in her estate, safe from everything, and she is laughing, she is smiling, touching him so softly and telling him she loves him. He squeezes his eyes closed but the tears bleed through anyway, dropping onto her dress. He grips her legs, her thighs, her waist, until he is pulling her down to the floor with him and she is pined underneath him, silent and unmoving, as he rolls over her.

He runs a hand down her thigh, the way that would make her croon, and cups her face and demands that she kiss him. Her lips are as cold as her hands, and it is like kissing a statue. He wraps his hands around her neck and squeezes, watching through blurred vision as her face turns red. She says nothing and does not fight him. He lets go of her with a cry, shuffling away from her until his back is against the wall. He pulls his knees to his chest and hugs himself, unable to stop the sobs. She lays there, watching him, like a broken doll. He remembers her dying in his arms, the sword of the Arishok sticking almost comically out of her middle. _I don’t want you to leave. Please don’t leave me_. Those words bind him still.

The sky rips open and bleeds green, pouring demons down in a flood. The Conclave, the supposed solution to the mage Templar war, is destroyed. The Breach they are calling it, this hole in the sky. It hovers up high ominously and fills Fenris with a sense of dread. Hawke regards it with a bored curiosity, noting that it is a tear in the Veil. In another life, it would have fascinated her. In another life, he would have had to fight her to keep from investigating it. In this life, she simply goes back inside the house.

Tranquils begin to disappear from Redcliffe, familiar faces disappearing one by one. It seems like no one except for Fenris notices. Soon after, the Magister from Tevinter arrives to strike an accord with the rebel mages. It is then that he takes Hawke and flees. He only knows Ferelden from what she had told him, and he manages to find a way to Lothering. It is a quiet place, having rebuilt homes and farms out of the memory of what was lost. People are kind here, and do not bother them. Fenris finds them a shack on the edge of town. He writes a letter to Varric, guessing that he would have some idea of what was going on. He was still with the Chantry, their captive. He does not mention Hawke and signs the letter as ‘Broody’. He hopes that is enough for anonymity.

He receives a reply months later. The answer, it seems, is that they did not kill something well enough. Corypheus, the ancient darkspawn magister, the one who hunted Hawke’s blood, has proclaimed himself a god and seeks to enter the Fade and show to all that the Maker has abandoned them. Varric is asking for their help. The Inquisition would like to ask Hawke about Corypheus, or perhaps her blood holds the key to sealing him again. Varric promises that they will come to no harm. Fenris finds no reason to stay in Lothering. She does not question him when they find themselves travelling once again.

Hawke walks for miles without complaint, and it is only when they make camp does Fenris find her feet bruised and bloody. He washes them tenderly and wraps them in bandages, promising her that they will find her better shoes. For now though, he carries her on his back, and she wraps her arms around him. _I might be able to help with your problems, or give you a few more_. Her head is leaning against his, and he can hear the quiet breaths she takes. They travel like that for a long time, before he is able to buy her better shoes. He tells her that she must tell him when her feet are getting sore. He apologizes for not telling her to do so before.

Fenris tells the guards at the gate of Skyhold that they are invited by Varric. Varric greets Fenris with a smile, and only sighs when he looks at Hawke. She greets him politely, “hello Master Tethras,” and he winces. She is a shadow as she follows them, Varric showing Fenris the fortress. The Inquisitor is a dalish elf, and makes the mistake of telling Fenris that he has never seen such curious vallaslin. He is too tired to argue, and is ready to simply wave away the issue, but it is Hawke who replies.

“His markings are not traditional blood writing. They are made of lyrium, carved into his flesh through a ritual by his former master, the Magister Danarius,” she says simply and freely, stunning the Inquisitor into silence and Fenris’s mouth hangs open. He tells her harshly to _never_ , ever speak of him and his markings so freely again. She apologizes, and agrees. Varric rubs his brow and sighs, and tells Fenris that he doesn’t know how he’s lived with her for this long.

The Inquisitor, Lavellan, tells him that he and Varric have contacted Hawke’s brother Carver. They needed information from the Grey Wardens. Carver is on his way to Skyhold as well, ready to aid the Inquisition. The other Wardens had been acting strangely, and he had been hiding in Kirkwall with Aveline. When Carver arrives, he regards Hawke quietly and clenches his jaw and his fist. He does not mention her tranquility, he does not speak to her at all. He simply turns away from her. The Wardens are doing something in the Western Approach. What, he is not quite sure, but they are meeting at a Tevinter ritual tower.

Fenris goes with Lavellan and Carver to the Western Approach, along with a few members of the Inquisitor’s inner circle. It is the first time that he has been away from Hawke since she was made Tranquil. It is almost freeing, but he feels the pull to her even when buried deep in sand and sun. She has bound him, like Danarius once bound him, but these chains are made of emotion and promises, whispers of words once said. It is easy to lose himself in the midst of battle, cutting down the Wardens which the Magister Erimond has bound to Corypheus. He slices through demon and flesh, the rhythm of battle being second nature.

The Magister, the coward, flees in the direction of the Warden fortress Adament. They will need to assault the fortress, and stop whatever the Magister and Corypheus is planning. At Skyhold, Lavellan asks if Hawke will accompany them to Adament. Fenris’s reply is instant, a biting “no”, because without her magic she is defenseless. _My magic will serve that which is best in me, not that which is most base._ Lavellan replies that she will be well protected by Inquisition soldiers, it is just that they need her in case Corypheus is there. Perhaps with the help of Inquisition mages, they can use her blood to bind him. Fenris will go with them. He will protect her better than any other soldier could.

The Inquisition gathers its forces and marches to Adamant. Their trebuchets pound at the ancient walls, and the fortress bleeds with Inquisition soldiers. Fenris and Hawke follow the Inquisitor and the members of his inner circle which he has chosen to take with him. The sound of Varric’s bolts are eerily familiar, but he cannot pretend they are in Kirkwall fighting bandits. The magic which protects him is not the warm hand of Hawke’s, but the chilly snap of Dorian’s. Cassandra fights like Aveline, but her cause is for the Maker and the Inquisitor, not to stand for all of them. Fenris misses all of them. He misses Hawke the most.

They carve their way to Adamant’s courtyard, where Warden-Commander Clarel is barking orders to the Wardens below. Erimond stands beside her, urging her on. Lavellan runs forth and attempts to sway the Wardens to their side. Carver stands with Lavellan and urges the same. “Listen to me!” Lavellan shouts, “I have no quarrel with the Wardens! I have spared those I could! I don’t want to kill you, but you’re being used. Some of you know it, don’t you?” Clarel is uneasy, and shifts on her feet.

“We could test the truth of these charges, to avoid more bloodshed,” she says, and those are the words that cause Erimond to laugh. He tells her he knew that she was weak, and that Corypheus had given him a more reliable ally. The corrupted dragon lands on the battlements, spewing forth red fire like lyrium. Fenris grabs at Hawke, drags her out of the way to safety. His hand remains around her wrist as they follow Clarel and Erimond up through the fortress, where she corners the Magister.

It is the dragon that does them all in. It crashes on the already crumbling bridge and brings it down, finding no difference between Erimond and the Inquisition. Hawke does not scream as they fall, and Fenris does not let go of her wrist. This is it, he thinks, he will finally be able to see her again. He hopes that she will smile when she sees him, and that she will laugh, that she will hold him and tell him again that she is his. _I am yours_. He squeezes his eyes closed.

He wakes to screams. Hawke is on her knees beside him, her palms pressed against her ears and she is screaming into the ground, and the tears are falling from her eyes. She is heaving, she is choking and she cannot stop screaming. Fenris crawls to her and she turns to him, her hands fisting into his tunic, beating at his chest and in between the incoherent screams, he hears his name. “Fenris,” she cries, “Fenris, _please_.” Dorian stands beside him and tells him that they are in the Fade.

In the Fade. Where she is whole. Where she feels. Where she is screaming.


	2. Can't Help Falling in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris, Fenris, little wolf. You have replaced one master with another. You don’t want freedom, you don’t want choice. You are bound as you have always been bound as you will always be bound. You could not protect her before, what makes you think you can protect her now? She will die and you will linger on, alone.

Fenris takes her by the shoulders, pressing his face against hers, then crushes her against him. She cries against his chest, and he rocks her gently. He has his hand in her hair, holding her tight against him, the other around her back which shakes with her sobs. _I am yours, I am yours, I am yours_. He repeats it for her, over and over again, while the others circle around them. Cassandra says that there was one who was cured of Tranquility before, and this one had no control over his emotions. It has all come crashing back to Hawke and she cannot process it all.

She is working through losing the battle against the Templars, working through seeing Fenris beaten and bloody as he tries to keep them away from her, the grip of his hand in hers as he tries to hold onto her as the Templars drag her away. Her screams, knowing what they will do, begging him to kill her. Then the silence. Then Fenris’s face as he sees her again, knowing that she is lost. The sleepless nights he spent pacing around her, touching her, looking for any trace of the person he once loved. All the times he almost did as she asked, when she was beating at deaths door. All the times he brought her back. She remembers every night he spent looking at her and telling her that he was hers, always. That he will remain at her side. _I can’t bear the thought of living without you_.

“Fenris,” she looks at him as she blinks away tears, moving to cup his face in her hands, trying to catch her breath, unable to calm herself, “Fenris, I love you, oh Maker, I love you so much. I’m so sorry,” she weeps, pressing her shaking lips to his, tasting how familiar he was, and how much he returned her kiss, the desperate way he gasped into her mouth, the way he clutched at her waist. He was weeping almost as much as she was, her name on every other breath, _I am yours_ on all the rest.

Cassandra and Varric are wiping away their own tears, and Carver looks almost relieved. Lavellan looks heartbroken for them, winding his hand into Dorian’s. It is only Dorian who is looking not at Hawke and Fenris but at the Fade, and at the Rift sparkling in the distance. He understands that they need to leave as soon as possible. He understands that once Hawke leaves the Fade she will go back to being Tranquil like before. He needs to get Lavellan and the rest out of there, but isn’t sure if Hawke and Fenris will follow. He breaks the silent vigil around the couple, and gently reminds every one of their situation. The Fade was not made for mortals.

Fenris lifts Hawke into his arms, and she does not loosen her grip on him. She cries into his neck, peppering each sob with an apology or an admission of love. She knows how hard it has been for him. His arms shake not with the effort of carrying her, but with the knowledge that it is truly Hawke in his arms. _His_ Hawke. She has come back to him. She tells him how sorry she is, and that she wishes she could fix it for him. She tells him all the things she wished she could have said before. How she has never doubted him for an instant and that he is so strong and she so grateful. She does not want to leave him ever again.

A spirit waits for them at the top of a staircase, and Fenris gently lets Hawke down as the others talk to it. They stay slightly away from the rest, Fenris’s arms wrapped around her, hugging her tightly to him. She holds on just as fiercely, scarcely able to believe that he is real and that she is able to feel again. It crashes over her like violent waves and she cannot stop it. He holds her through the storm, as Cassandra questions if the spirit is truly the Divine, and when the spirit tells them that they must retrieve Lavellan's stolen memories. He does not fight with the rest. He stays with Hawke.

The master of this place in the Fade greets them, telling them that “perhaps I should be afraid, facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition.” Its voice booms around them, as does its laughter. Fenris holds Hawke a little tighter as they walk, as she shakes with fear. “Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you, Varric. You found the red lyrium. You helped her fight the Templars. You brought her here…” Varric grumbles a reply and holds Bianca just a little tighter.

“Greetings, Dorian… it is Dorian, isn’t it? For a moment, I mistook you for your father.” Dorian scoffs and gives a mocking reply, making Lavellan guffaw with nervous laughter. “Your Inquisitor is a fraud, Cassandra. Yet more evidence there is no Maker, that all your “faith” has been for naught.” Cassandra tells the demon to die in Void, through gritted teeth, and with her sword in hand.

“Hawke tranquil meant that you were now _the_ Hawke. Did you cheer when you found out the news? Finally out of her shadow, able to make a name for yourself. And what have you done with this opportunity. You are still nothing and you will always be nothing.” Carver shakes his head and clenches his jaw, but does not reply.

“Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn’t even save your city. You couldn’t even save yourself. How could you expect to strike down a god? Fenris is going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about. You’re a failure, and your family died knowing it.” Hawke cries and Fenris presses a kiss to her forehead, over the brand.

“Fenris, Fenris, little wolf. You have replaced one master with another. You don’t want freedom, you don’t want choice. You are bound as you have always been bound as you will always be bound. You could not protect her before, what makes you think you can protect her now? She will die and you will linger on, alone.” He hefts her into his arms again as her footsteps fail her, and she clings to him and whispers that she loves him, oh yes, always. _Please don’t leave me_.

“You must get through the rift, Inquisitor. Get through and then slam it closed with all your strength. That will banish the army of demons… and exile this cursed creature to the farthest reaches of the Fade,” the spirit says as it leads them through the Fade. Hawke, like Dorian, knows what will happen when she appears on the other side of the Rift. She will be Tranquil again, an uninteresting body to spirits, a dead husk of a thing, a thing which was killing Fenris to keep. The Nightmare demon awaits them, as does its spider pet.

“If you would, please tell Leliana, ‘I am sorry. I failed you, too,’” the spirit says as it drifts towards the spider thing, banishing it in a bright burst of white light. When the light clears and the spots fade from their eyes, only the Nightmare stands before them. It screeches and summons its minions to him. It points them to attack. Hawke stands behind Fenris as he draws his sword. He will protect her, as he will always protect her. He slashes through demon after demon, allowing none to get close to her. She is afraid to use her magic. It feels all new again, like she’s about to set fire to a field, and keeps it closed inside her.

Lavellan outstretches his hand, reaches out the anchor, and bends the Fade around the Nightmare. The Fade flutters and folds, screeches and whines, and pulls the Nightmare into itself. It twists the creature, breaks it, and when Lavellan lowers his hand again, Carver sinks his sword into its face for good measure. They race towards the Rift, and one by one they re-emerge in Thedas. Fenris and Hawke are last and as he stands at the doorway, she grabs his arm. She turns him to her, kisses him fiercely. “I love you Fenris. Always, I am yours,” she says. She smiles. She pushes him through. Lavellan does not realize there is one missing. He is gasping on the ground and closes the Rift reflexively.

_I’ll take you to stranger places than this, just watch._ “No!” Fenris drops his sword and screams, falling to his knees. “Hawke!” He screams her name over and over again, shaking Lavellan, telling him, begging him, to open the Rift again. _Meeting you was the most important thing that ever happened to me_. If she could not come back with him, at least let him go back into the Fade to be with her. _Promise me you won’t die_. She smiled when she pushed him, she put her hands on his chest and smiled. He could see it in his mind, a smile that was meant to reassure him but instead broke his heart. _I can’t bear the thought of living without you_. Dorian is saying something to him, trying to tell him that she would have been Tranquil again if she came through the Rift, and that it was her choice to stay. _Nothing is going to keep me from you_. Fenris just wanted the choice of being able to stay with her. He would have gone anywhere, stayed anywhere, as long as it was with her.

It takes Dorian and Cassandra to drag him away, kicking and screaming, reaching back to where the Rift once stood. She has been torn away from him, cut off like a limb, ripped out like a vital organ. His chest constricts and he cannot breathe, and he sits in the Inquisition’s camp huddled in a corner like a child, weeping into his hands. He had her. He had _her_. Such a brief glimpse of her. It was his Hawke, his bird, his love, his everything, she was in his arms and the world was righting itself. Now, the world had ended. She has gone where he cannot follow. He wonders if he will see her in the Void again, or if she will wander, stuck in the Fade forever?

Varric sits with him, his shoulders hunched and his face downcast, slumped in a chair, Bianca discarded beside him. Carver is ashen pale and silent, rubbing his face with his hands. Fenris sobs himself into slumber and wakes to find himself in a cart headed back to Skyhold. Lavellan asks Fenris if he would like to join the Inquisition’s forces. He mumbles agreement, finding no reason to say no. It is easier this way, being sent from battlefield to battlefield. He races ahead of his teammates each and every time, a poor attempt at suicide. He unleashes his pain, his torment, his anguish upon the enemies of the Inquisition. Red Templars and demons alike fall before him, unable to tame his wrath.

Outside of battle, he is despondent. He feels almost Tranquil himself, unable to conjure up any tangible emotion. He walks through the motions of life as though they were a fading dream, eating and sleeping only enough to keep himself going. Some nights, he lies awake in his bedroll and stares at the stars above him. He longs for her presence, her warmth beside him. Even the cold warmth of a Tranquil Hawke. Anything, he thinks, would be better than this. He wakes, he fights, and he lingers on alone. On an overcast day, he is summoned back to Skyhold.

He walks in the cold rain, soaking through his tunic to his bones, raindrops bouncing off his chest plate. It drips from his hair, draws wet lines down his face. He is shivering badly when he reaches Skyhold but he barely feels it. Servants attend to him, take his sword and present him with a towel and dry clothes. Left to change, he stares at his shaking hands and the lyrium lines etched underneath his skin. It would be so easy to cut, to see if she was waiting for him. He dries himself, he changes, and he calls himself a coward.

Fenris walks to the Inquisition’s war table, where the Inquisitor and Varric are waiting for him. They are huddled around a map of Thedas, with a red haired woman he recognizes as one of Sebastian’s associates, and an ornately dressed Antivan woman with papers in her hand, and, and… one of the Templars who stole Hawke away from him. He launches himself over the war table, teeth bared and hands outstretched for Cullen’s throat. He remembers Hawke screaming with Cullen’s hand on her arm, dragging her away to her doom. That is all Fenris sees as he tackles Cullen to the floor and buries his fist into his face.

He is only vaguely aware of a woman screaming and shouting, and Varric cursing, tugging at his tunic, trying to pull Fenris away. It takes the combined effort of Leliana and Lavellan to pull Fenris off of Cullen, still shouting, still swinging, and still ready to kill the man for what he had done to Hawke. What he had done to them. The Antivan woman helps Cullen to his feet and they rush out the door together while Fenris is yelling for the murdering bastard to come back and face his just punishment.

“Broody, Broody, hey, Fenris!” Varric is yelling at him, but that does not deter Fenris. He is silenced when the red woman strikes her hand across his face in a sharp and resounding slap. “Shit Leliana, I should have known. He was one of the Templars in Kirkwall who, well, you know. I wasn’t thinking,” Varric says but the red woman only waves her hand and makes a disapproving noise.

“I was aware as well. You do not take the blame for this,” Leliana says and levels Fenris with an even stare. “I understand your anger but Cullen is no longer a Templar. He is working with the Inquisition to remedy past mistakes. While he is here, you are not to touch him. Do you understand, _soldier_?” She reminds him of the slave masters in Tevinter, sharp and sure, and utterly terrifying.

“Fenris,” Lavellan’s voice is soft, and he appears from behind Leliana. “We called you here not to fight, but to give you some news. There’s been a sighting at a Rift. Our scouts confirm that it is Hawke.” Fenris lifts his head at that, hardly daring to hope. He nurses bloody knuckles and waits with bated breath for Lavellan to continue.

“She has not left the Rift for days, and we have both her and the Rift under constant surveillance. We believe she is… possessed,” Lavellan chokes the word out and the hope that Fenris has crashes around him. She had been reborn in the fade, too new, too fragile to fight of the demons. If he had been with her, he would have been the strength she needed to keep herself whole, to keep the demons at bay. He would have kept her safe and they would have been together.

“She has not left the Rift because she is, ah, waiting. When our scouts tried to approach her, she told them to – well, they said she told them to bring you to her. This is a trap, to be sure,” Lavellan says, pressing his fist against the wood of the war table. Varric still has his hand on Fenris’s back, steadying him. Fenris does not care if it’s a trap. Hawke is waiting for him.

“Please,” is all he can say, please let him go to her, please let him see her once more, please let him stay with her, for good this time. Lavellan hesitates. He has read all the reports, as has Varric, of Fenris’s recent behavior. If he allows him to go, he allows Fenris to go to his death. Dorian raps his knuckles on the door and enters without needing an answer, sweeping in to stand beside Lavellan.

“Quite the look Cullen is sporting,” Dorian says dryly, “however I do believe I have a solution. There is a ritual that one can perform to send themselves into the Fade. There, they would be able to kill the demon possessing Hawke and free her from its grasp.” Yes, Fenris thinks, and stiffens.

“Feynriel,” he says to Varric, and then, “Merrill.” Merrill trained to be a Keeper almost her entire life. Surely she would know how to perform such a ritual. She would send him into the Fade like Marethari sent them into the Fade to save Feynriel. There he would not falter and there he would save her. Varric communicates all the things that Fenris cannot say, about how they know someone who might be able to perform the ritual. Lavellan nods and gives his consent. They will send letters to find Merrill right away, and they will send Fenris to the Rift to subdue and bring Hawke to Skyhold.

She is waiting for him, as promised. Hawke stands against the green of the Rift, illuminated by the glow, and there is a smile on her lips. It is not the smile that Fenris knows, the one she would flash in the dead of night as they curled up together. It is not the smile she would give him before touching his face, or holding his hand. It is not the smile that she gives him after he tells her he is hers, not the smile that fades into kisses, not the smile that fixes the broken pieces of him. This smile is cruel and mocking, a twisted jesters impression of lips. She laughs at him when he approaches.

“Ah, the slave. At last,” Hawke says and licks her lips with voracious hunger. She runs her hands along her body, the dress she wore is now ripped to shreds, dirty and worn, and hides nothing from his gaze. He sees all the cuts, all the bruises, all the things he should have shielded her from. This thing that wears Hawke’s face pulls her dress up to press her hand inside of her smalls, and moans at him. It takes her fingers into its mouth and sucks. “Would you like to taste her again? She’s very sweet.” It spreads its arms wide and laughs, “come to me, my little wolf, come to me and we can be together.”

Its words are cruel, meant to cut. He goes to her anyway. He does not draw his sword, he does not activate his markings, and his steps do not hesitate. He walks sure, his hands outstretched towards her. He cups her face in his hands, thumbs running over her cheekbones, and looks past the glowing green of her eyes to the blue he knows is underneath. “Hawke. I am yours,” he tells her fiercely, and while the thing laughs, he holds her tight.

Soldiers spring forth around him, but these are no ordinary Inquisition soldiers. These are Templars. He holds her as she screams when the Holy Smites hit her. He holds her when she falls to her knees, writhing in pain. Through his markings he can feel the thing try and reach for her magic but the Templars assault is relentless. Silence after silence, smite after smite. The thing grimaces and grips his arms, fingernails digging into his flesh, drawing blood. He tells Hawke that he will save her. The thing says she’s already dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always happy [ to chat. :)](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	3. Modern Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stay here with me.” His head knocks against hers, teeth biting gently at her earlobe as he whispers, “Ten years from now… a hundred years from now… someone like me will love someone like you – and there will be no Templars to tear them apart.”

They drag Hawke back to Skyhold drugged, and in chains. The moments when she is awake are filled with cruel laughter, mocking laughter, centered on Fenris. She claws at the manacles on her wrist and tries to free herself. These moments are brief and brought to an end by the Templars. Fenris hates this, having to use the help of the people who destroyed her so. When she is free from the demons grasp, he imagines that she will hate him for this. As long as she is whole, it is worth it.

They drag her through Skyhold’s courtyard, her body limp and her feet trailing behind them. He had been in the Fade only once before and he had failed her there. He would not make the same mistake this time. She had forgiven him so easily, knowing how hard it was to resist the temptations of demons. She faced them each and every night and defeated them every single time. How many nights did they spend lying in bed together while she fought her secret war? She was so much stronger than he was.

They chain her to the floor of the prison, her back against a pole, her head hanging on her chest. Isabela hugged him when she saw him and even Merrill has smiles reserved for him. Isabela regards Hawke sadly and tells Fenris that she never thought she would be possessed. Fenris tells her that she did not see Hawke in the Fade, how much she needed to relearn everything. A blessing in disguise, freeing her of possession will at least reverse the tranquility. He would kill an unknowable number of demons for her.

Fenris sits down cross-legged in front of her, his hands on his knees and quietly waits for her to wake. Two Templars flank her, ready to silence her the moment she wakes. Merrill needs Hawke awake in order to perform the ritual. Isabela leaves, finding all of it too unnerving to take, and goes to drink with Varric. Lavellan stays, as does Dorian and Cassandra.

When her eyes do open, the silences are instant. She laughs at the sting of their power, and looks at Fenris sitting in front of her. She leans as far towards him as the chains will let her and snaps her teeth together. Merrill stands beside Fenris, a knife in her hands. “It will try and trick you lethallin, you must wait to kill it when it shows its true form,” she says and the demon whips Hawke’s head around to look at her.

“You’ve tasted the back hand of a demon before, haven’t you little one? Wouldn’t you like to try something stronger?” It says to Merrill, and licks Hawke’s lips. Merrill, very politely, tells it that she is fine and wishes Fenris good luck. She makes a swift, practiced cut across her palm and Fenris can feel the magic rising around her. It happens quickly, one moment sitting in the prison and the next in the bedroom of Hawke’s estate. He rises to his feet and regards his surroundings, skin prickling at the familiarity of it all.

He knows this night. Hawke sits on the bed, wrapped in only a sheet, tears still wet on her face. She looks up at him when he enters, suddenly hopeful. “You’ve come back, does this mean – or have you come to gloat? I didn’t know you could be so cruel,” she says bitterly, turning to look away from him. These are the words he never heard, the thoughts she never voiced after he left her that night. She rubs at her eyes with her fists and then stands, clutching the sheet to her breast, her shoulders still bare. Her brow is furrowed and she is looking at him with such hate.

“You cruel fucking bastard. How could you? How could you do this to me? To us?” She asks, shoving at his chest with the palm of her hand. “I gave you everything. I trusted you,” she yells, pushing him again and again until he is against the wall and she is angry and wild in front of him, beating his chest with her fist. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she says and her face cracks with more tears.

“Hawke,” Fenris says slowly, cautiously, “this isn’t real.” He tries to reach for her, but she moves away from him.

“This isn’t real? I know how I feel about you Fenris. That is real. I thought you felt the same,” she says, standing in front of the fireplace and staring at the fire flickering inside it. His heart breaks for her, knowing that this is the knife he put there. She runs a hand through her hair and runs it down her face, trying desperately to sort through the sorrow and the anger. Fenris is startled when the door to her bedroom opens, and he is face to face with Anders. This Anders smirks at him and walks to Hawke, standing behind her, turning her to face Fenris.

“He left you,” Anders says, a hand brushing on her shoulder to rest around her neck. His other hand snakes around her waist, sliding inside of the sheet around her. He presses kisses to her shoulder and stares at Fenris all the while. “Stay here with me.” His head knocks against hers, teeth biting gently at her earlobe as he whispers, “Ten years from now… a hundred years from now… someone like me will love someone like you – and there will be no Templars to tear them apart.”

“Hawke. This is not what happened. Don’t you remember? Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you,” Fenris says to her firmly, even as the demon masquerading as Anders holds her neck a little tighter. She is frowning though, not from anger but from confusion. Comprehension dawns in her eyes a few moments later.

“I’m possessed,” she says with clarity and the demon behind her snarls, clutching her tightly, pulling her back with him. Hawke reaches out for Fenris and he almost has her in his grasp, fingertips touching, but the demon snarls and pulls her through the wall. Hawke’s estate disappears into nothingness, the Fade re-shaping itself, the next level of Hawke’s prison.

The foundry is exactly the way he remembers it, dark and dirty with the iron taste of blood in the air. Hawke is kneeling in the dirt, the fractured pieces of Leandra clutched in her arms. A young woman circles them, the softer version of Hawke, and whispers in her ear. “You’ve killed another one of us,” Bethany says. “First you let father die, then you let me die and now you’ve killed mother. How will you kill Carver?”

“I-I should have protected you. I should have protected all of you. I’m so sorry Bethy,” Hawke pleads, turning her face to her sister. This version of Bethany is biting and cruel and only laughs at her apology. Fenris approaches them slowly and the demon regards him with animosity.

“If you had only learned some healing you could have prevented all of this. But no, high and mighty Hawke is too good for healing. Too good at destroying things,” the demon wearing Bethany’s face says, putting a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, nails biting into flesh. Fenris kneels across from Hawke, and taps a finger to her chin, lifting her face to look at him.

“You have told me how sweet, how kind Bethany was. She would never have blamed you for this. You did all you could Hawke,” he says to her, as she blinks back tears. Bethany laughs and says that there was no other option but to blame Hawke. She endures, everyone else falls. She is a curse, a pox upon their family.

“Never to me Hawke. Come home with me,” Fenris says, fingertips ghosting across her cheeks. No matter how many games the demon plays, he will always bring her back. She is wearing that frown again, the one that tells him she is putting the pieces together. She looks at him, her eyes clear and no longer fogged, her mouth set in a grim line. Sensing the change, Bethany wraps her arms around Hawke and drags them through the floor.

The viscounts throne room is empty, save for the Arishok and Hawke, who is impaled against a pillar, the Arishok’s sword sticking from her middle. “You are unworthy of killing me,” the Arishok says to her, “you are weak and have let your city fall.” She is gasping, and heaving, her hands grasping at the hilt of the sword, her legs flailing uselessly. A small line of blood pours from her lips and Fenris stumbles at this, at the memory of her so close to death in her arms. _Fenris, it hurts._

“You allowed this to happen. You knew Isabela was hiding something and did not question. You allowed me to kill the viscount, you allowed Meredith to rise to power. You should have known better. There can be no half-measures,” the Arishok growls at her and she only whimpers weakly.

“Hawke, you are the Champion of Kirkwall. You slew the Arishok in single combat when no other would have been able to do so. You saved the city and protected those you could. You bear the scar of this fight and try to hide it from me every time. It is beautiful Hawke, just as you are,” Fenris interjects, wishing he could free her from this pillar, this torment. It is the demons game though and he must play by the rules.

It is faster this time, and the scene fades as quickly as it had come. Now, he and Hawke stand side by side in the Hanged Man, and his gauntlets are coated in blood. Varania lies in front of them, a hole where her heart should be, and tells Hawke that she should have saved her. “You were too selfish,” his sister says. “I could have given Fenris all the answers he wanted. You were a coward. You thought he would have no more need for you. You would keep him like a slave.” He knows the demon is saying all the things Hawke has ever thought back to her. She had never told him about this guilt, the guilt that was not hers to bear. It was not her that reached into Varania’s chest, it was not her who stopped Varania’s heart from beating. It was his choice.

Fenris begins to reach for her, to tell her that no matter had Varania lived or died he would always have chosen Hawke. Hawke was always the inevitable choice, the only one he was ever proud of. He would choose her over everything else, time and time again. Hawke silences him with a wave of her hand. “I am not his master. Fenris does not belong to anyone,” she says and the demon snarls, knowing the game is almost at the end. This time, Hawke does not fade with the rest of the illusion, but they are pulled into the next together.

They stand in the Chantry, in the pews where the masses congregate, and look up to see Meredith and Elthina staring back at them. The giant statue of Andraste looms behind them, bearing down judgement on those before it. “It is your fault,” Meredith says to Hawke, her hands on the railings, staring down at her from where the Grand Cleric would make her sermons.

“You helped Anders gather the ingredients. You helped him plant the bomb. You helped him kill so many innocents,” Elthina says as she stands beside Meredith. Her robes are flaming slightly, evidence of the destruction brought down upon her. Meredith’s body cracks with red, the lyrium glowing underneath.

“You murdered the mages you said were under your protection. Allowed Fenris and your co-conspirators to be captured,” Meredith’s voice shouts out, tone biting and accusing.

“You allowed yourself to be made tranquil, so you wouldn’t have to feel the guilt any longer,” Elthina says and Hawke reaches for Fenris’s hand. He knows the truth. He knows how hard she fought, how she would have rather died than let any of it happen. She would have killed herself to keep him safe, to keep herself whole, and to keep them together.

“Yes,” Hawke says, “all of that. I am a better demon than you are.” Meredith and Elthina laugh together, before disappearing altogether as the red light rises. Hawke turns to Fenris and him to her, and he has his hands on her face and his lips on hers. Her mouth is warm, wet and wanting, and they cling to each other as the Chantry explodes around them.

They stand now in the Fade proper, and he cannot help but caress her face, tracing all the pieces of her that he has missed. She leans into his touch and he presses his forehead against hers as she smiles. He has missed that smile so deeply, so much, that his hands begin to tremble and he feels his knees weaken as she kisses him again, a happy laugh on her lips. “You’ve come for me,” she says.

“Always,” he tells her.

“Let’s kill this son of a bitch and go home,” she says, and just as he felt the magic around Merrill, he now feels it around her. His sword appears without a thought and they will face this together. Just as Fenris has his sword in his hand, Hawke has her staff in hers. She twirls it to feel its balance, having missed its weight in her palm for so long.

“It was easy,” the demon says, “all I needed to do was wear your face.” The desire demon floats to the ground in front of them, laughing softly. It reaches out towards Fenris and licks its lips, drawing its hands back to run themselves down over purple flesh. They don’t need any more encouragement. Fenris sprints forward, her magic ghosting around him, that gentle touch on the back of his neck. The demon catches his sword in its claws and he presses downwards, fighting against it to bring forth black blood from its palm.

The demon snarls and bares its teeth, and Fenris leaps back as Hawke manipulates the air around them to bring it crashing down on the demon’s head. It stumbles, balance lost, and Fenris presses the advantage, a dashing strike to its heart. His sword bounces off a hurried barrier, and Hawke forms a fist and pulls, dispelling the demons magic, clearing a path.

It is easy, this thing between them, something not lost to them no matter how much time they spend apart. They have been tested too many times before, bond formed in metal and blood, and they fight as one. There is no need for any communication, they read each other easily and knows what the other needs. This fight was over before it began.The ice springs forth from the demons feet, locking it in place and it hisses when it catches Fenris’s sword with its hands. Hawke moves to stand beside him, the fire in her palm. The demon screams as she presses the flame to its face.

Fenris wakes with a heaving gasp, in a bed not his own. The room is dark, a single window streaming pitiful light, and it takes a few moments before Fenris realizes where he is. A guest room, in Skyhold. The door creaks open and it is brighter outside than the window revealed, an exquisite day by any standard. The air here is cold but comfortable, a crisp snap that clears his senses. They have moved him to one of the rooms above the garden, and he peers down over the balcony.

She is so easy for him to spot, a sun all her own. She is dressed casually, in fresh clothing servants must have brought for her. She is clean and her hair freshly cut, and all wounds and bruises have been attended to. He walks down the stairs slowly, his eyes never leaving her form. She is laughing, she is smiling, and she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. He thinks he can see her eyes from here, that familiar blue, so bright and bold, sparkling as she says something to Isabela.

He can walk no longer. He runs towards her, his magnificent Hawke, and oh Maker, the look on her face when she sees him. Her arms are outstretched towards him, inviting, and she is walking towards him and then she is running and he catches her, lifts her and spins her around in his arms. Her hands are on his shoulders and she truly dazzles here, and takes his breath away. They laugh together as he sets her back on her feet and folds her into his arms.

She clings to him as tightly as he does to her, and the hand wound in his hair is so achingly familiar. “Fenris,” she says, “you saved me.” He cups her face in his hands and their kiss is longing and needy, and they both cannot stop smiling.

“Hawke,” he says, “I am yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy ending, hurrah!   
> Hope you enjoyed my lovelies! <3

**Author's Note:**

> I feel only a little evil for doing this. A short drabble, maximum pain engaged.  
> As always, I welcome chats at [my tumblr! ](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)  
> The next two chapters will be up fairly quickly. <3


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